"Huh?" Rhett almost said aloud, but forced it back in time. He felt the air around his body and actually realized that he was, in fact, naked. When he fought against Velez, damaging his motorcycle momentarily, he had regenerated from a single blood drop. Unfortunately, that meant that his physical body had been reformed, but not the clothes. And since he couldn't regenerate those too, his quirk effectively stripped him of his decency.
Since they had barely escaped that high-tension chase, and any sort of clothing would either have been looted or destroyed, he had no choice but to run around naked. It was simply the consequence of his quirk.
That didn't make it any less embarrassing—it was just something he had to deal with.
But he wasn't shocked because he was naked. He was shocked because of who the voice above him belonged to.
A child.
It was high-pitched, a little whiny, and sounded female. But as she spoke more, Rhett caught the deliberate cadence—she was trying to sound older, more regal. Twelve or thirteen, maybe.
Hearing something like that in this war-torn city was shocking enough. What was even more shocking was that the voice carried no sort of fear in it.
How could a child survive for so long here without even being the tiniest bit traumatized?
"Say, Lancelot." The voice continued. She tried speaking lightly and high-born like she was some sort of royalty, or at least trying to act like it. "What do you think we should do with these poor, unfortunate souls?"
Silence, and then a dramatic gasp followed.
"Squash them? My, Lancey. That's too gruesome, even for an executioner like you. Hmm. What should I do..."
Maybe just leave us alone? Rhett thought.
"Mmm, I guess they could just be lackeys. Helping me wash my clothes and other little things. We have a knight, executioner, cook, guard. I guess a shoe-cleaner would be cool too. Hah! I really am a Queen. I can have whatever I want!"
What is this person talking about? Rhett thought, then he felt something touch his chest. Fingers, all five of them. He held his breath and tried as much as possible to slow his beating heart so she wouldn't notice.
After a moment, the voice said with a soft tone:
"Rise, my zombie."
Rhett, only having a vague idea what to do, began to do as she said. Trying to act as much like the robotic armies that he had seen before he started playing dead, he forced himself to get up—not like a normal human would, but with rigid, jerky movements.
Once he was completely vertical, he deduced it was the right time and opened his eyes, slowly and emotionlessly.
His breath froze when he saw the crowd in front of him. His fifty to seventy estimate must have been wrong, because the people numbered to be about a hundred minimum.
When he stared, they all stared back with motionless, empty eyes.
Almost like they were robots.
Or, as the girl had spoken above him, they were zombies.
Because standing right in front of him, one of the first people he fought against when he embarked on this mission, was according to Henrik, Brett.
Or as Rhett had dubbed him, the Iron Knight.
The former hero stood tall and imposing. The minimalist metal plates that had once protected his vitals had been transformed into something more historical and ancient looking. He had been changed to look like a medieval knight, complete with a full body metal suit, joints and plates, ornamental crests, and a large shield on his back, plus a sword sheathed at his side.
The Iron Knight had been resurrected. Rhett knew he had killed him. He could visibly remember how he tore through his ribs, crushed his internal organs and destroyed his chest, which made the Iron Knight go on a kamikaze attack, shredding himself to pieces to annihilate Rhett.
When Rhett was done, the Iron Knight was nothing more than a pile of discarded flesh and steel. And yet here he was.
Moving, but not alive.
Because, as Rhett was just realizing, the girl's power was to raise the dead.
That was what she thought she had done with Rhett. By touching him and saying those words, she was able to bring the dead back from the grave.
It was eerily similar to Rhett's regen quirk, only that his was limited to himself, save for the exception that happened with Henrik, which Velez had mistaken for resurrection of other dead people apart from himself. Which ironically seemed to be the girl's actual power.
As he stared out at all the other empty husks staring emptily back at him, he realized this was how she had grown this army.
Each and every one of these people must have died during this god-forsaken war. And she had brought them back as 'her zombies'—basically reanimated corpses which had no other option but to follow her directions.
The thought sent shivers down his spine even though he reasoned that her quirk would never really be able to work on him. He could never really die, so she could never really resurrect him in the split-second he started regenerating back. His quirk already brought him back to life—no opportunity for her to put her hands on him.
But still... Henrik could die. And if he wasn't fast enough or present to merge with him, he would die and become her slave.
Speaking of Henrik...
Rhett turned his eyes, straining his vision through his periphery to maintain the illusion of him being an obedient, unmoving zombie.
He struggled to see what was happening to the boy until his breath hitched when he saw the person orchestrating this messed-up parade.
His guess had been right. It was a girl. At full height, she barely reached Rhett's ribs, but that didn't make her look any less intimidating.
It was simply the way she looked and carried herself. Rhett would even say she looked like a corpse herself.
Her face was oval-shaped but the skin was stretched thin over the bone, making her look severely malnourished. She wore a moss-green ballroom dress stitched with faded gold thread and fake flowers the color of dried blood. What should have made her look like royalty instead made her look like a corpse dug up for a final waltz.
Her small button nose sat above lips that had been painted red with what looked like lipstick, or blood. White hair that looked surprisingly tidy fell to her shoulders, and her polished black heels clacked against the asphalt ground with each imperious step.
The most unnerving part was her eyes.
Her oversized olive-green irises made her face look inhuman—like a doll left too long in the sun. The eyes themselves were bigger than a child's eyes should be, taking up most of her face. Right now, those piercing eyes were gazing down at what the girl thought to be Henrik's dead body.
"Is this even worth the effort?" The girl muttered as she knelt down to 'resurrect' Henrik. Then she shrugged and muttered, "Maybe his quirk will be useful."
Then she put her hand on Henrik's head and said the same words she'd used on Rhett.
"Rise, my zombie."
Henrik, despite his eyes being closed, seemed to understand the assignment like Rhett. He stood like his joints were made with rusted iron, and when his eyes opened, they were staring emptily at the horizon.
His imitation of a zombie was so accurate and uncanny it almost made Rhett think he actually was one of them.
"Okay then, demonstrate your quirk." The girl said, pouting as she put her hands on her hips, her eyes tracking Henrik's movements with curiosity.
Apparently, this was how she controlled her zombies. Since there wasn't much around Henrik to merge with, he crouched and brought his hand to the ground. Merging his fist with the asphalt-coated earth, he forcefully brought his hand back, tearing a chunk of the ground along with it.
The girl stared, obviously unimpressed. "Seriously? That's all you can do? Well, maybe Grand will find something useful for you to do..."
A chill ran through Rhett's spine.
Grand.
There was that name again. The squatter they had run into in the dead-end hotel had mentioned that name with relation to the arena.
The way she said it—casual and somehow yet reverent—made Rhett's skin crawl. Not just another villain, but someone this terrifying child served. Someone who commanded armies of the dead through intermediaries like her.
Who was he? And why did Rhett feel like he had heard that name before, buried somewhere in the gaps of his fractured memory?
"Well then." The girl pivoted on the ball of her slender foot and swiveled to Rhett. "What's your quirk? Demonstrate."
Rhett froze. He couldn't exactly demonstrate his quirk without dying, so unless he killed himself, or the girl used one of her zombie soldiers to kill him, he couldn't show it.
What would the girl do? Would an actual zombie do something else to demonstrate? Would she realize that he wasn't actually under her control?
"Come on, do something!" The girl huffed as she stomped on his toes. Hard. Rhett bit back a scream as he felt the bones break, but he couldn't do anything but bite the insides of his cheek so he didn't yelp and blow his cover.
"Just my rotten luck. I resurrected a dud. He doesn't even have a quirk." The girl puffed as she folded her arms around her chest and turned her back on him. "At least you'll make a decent shoe-polisher."
An intrusive thought crept into Rhett's mind. What if he... killed her? She looked weak and fragile, despite her attitude and temper tantrums. He was sure he could subdue her quickly enough, before she could even send a command to her zombies.
But what if it didn't work? What if there were other variables, other quirks she had? He decided he couldn't risk it and maintained his cover.
"Lancey-boo!" She said as she walked over to Brett, the Iron Knight. Robotically, he went on one knee and metal pieces flew from his armor, forming a sort of chair—no, a metal throne—that the girl twirled and sat on. Then the Iron Knight stood back up, and the metal throne rose into the air along with the girl as she looked down on Rhett and Henrik.
"I really don't think this throne is befitting of a Queen. I heard Grand has some gold in this wasteland. There better be some when I meet him." The girl muttered as she ran lazy circles against the throne's armrest. Then she shot a withering look at Rhett and spoke. "Even if you're a mere shoe-polisher, it doesn't mean you'll walk around with no clothes. Even my lowest servants must have a level of decency. Go to the back, and Seamster will make you something to wear. Both of you."
Rhett and Henrik obeyed and walked into the zombie army, whose soldiers were already parting a way for the two of them to pass unobstructed. Behind them, the Iron Knight, carrying the creepy girl, walked into the army too, so they were in the middle of the large group—no doubt as defense so the fighters outside would fight before any issue reached her.
At the rear of the formation, a gaunt figure waited beside a collection of torn fabric and salvaged cloth. The zombie had once been a woman, but now her fingers ended in thin threads that gleamed in the dim light. Her eyes were as empty as the rest, but her hands moved with practiced precision.
The former hero didn't speak as he extended the threads from his fingers, weaving dusty scraps and gray cloth into crude robes. The fabric threads moved like living things, wrapping around Rhett's body in patterns that felt more like a web than clothing. The fabric was rough against his skin, but it covered him adequately.
Rhett forced himself not to flinch as the cold material settled against his body. The sensation was deeply unsettling—like being dressed by a spider.
Henrik received similar treatment, though his robe came out slightly better fitted. The seamster zombie worked in complete silence, her wire-fingers never pausing, never acknowledging them as anything more than mannequins to be clothed.
"There," the girl said, satisfaction clear in her voice. "Much better. A queen's servants must maintain proper decorum."
As they rejoined the formation, now properly clothed in their rough gray robes, the girl continued her introductions.
"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. How unlady-like of me!" The girl said, and even though she was in the middle and Rhett and Henrik were at the rear, her voice easily carried over the crowd due to the army's silence. She probably didn't even bother to make sure Henrik and Rhett were listening because she could communicate through her zombie connection—but the question nagged at Rhett.
How exactly did her control work? Was it the touch that bound them, or the words? Could she command anyone she'd resurrected, or did they need to stay within a certain range? The hive-mind silence suggested something deeper than simple orders.
"You peasants have been relieved of your mortal responsibilities. And now, you're a part of the most important cause of all time..."
"Serving me!" She said cheerily. "You may refer to me as the Zombie Queen, your leader, and Goddess. Welcome to the Zombie Parade, and now, on our next quest..."
"Let's go to the arena!"